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Somcrs Place, Hyde Park Square, 

1 844. 


Performing the grateful office of gathering together these literary memorials, I 
but fulfil the wishes of Her, in whose eyes they must ever have an interest and value. 
By others, but especially by Mr Joseph Taylor — so qualified by confidential 
intimacy, and constant experience of the virtues and accomplishments of his late 
friend and relative — this little labour of love might have been more advantageously 
rendered. As it is, the selection includes many of the pieces which they would 
themselves have chosen, while it excludes others perhaps of higher merit, merely 
because the tone of them was unsuitable to the occasion. It cannot be necessary to 
explain why these few simple pages do not comprise a number of epigrammatic 
satires and facetiœ, which were so happily adapted to the mirthful or political cir- 
cumstances under which they were written. 

Laman Blanchard. 



In those hearts which, as they were devoted most fer- 
vently to him in life, now mourn him unceasingly in 
death, a feeling has been awakened that the most 
acceptable monument to the memory of Edward 
Lewis Johnson may be presented in the form which 
it here assumes — a little volume, filled with pleasant 
emblems of his own character and being ; composed of 
the fancies, the sentiments, and the aspirations, which 
were his cheerers and companions through many happy 
years; and commemorative equally of his accomplish- 
ments and pursuits, his attachment to literature, his 
advances in scholarship, and his love of the poets. 

As the statue or the bust preserving the likeness 
of the cherished dead is prized above the plain blank 
marble, so should the living representation of the mind 
of the one mourned by us — that record which reflects 
his feelings, his tastes, his imagination, and all the hea- 

venliest portion of his nature — be prized above the 
sculptured stone, or any other memorial, however 
expressive, that esteem or affection can preserve. 

Under these impressions, a few of the pieces flung 
forth to take their chance amongst the fugitive poetry 
of the time, are here, after a season of silence has 
elapsed, reverentially brought together. The friends who 
best knew all the excellences centred in the lamented 
author of these collected verses, and the several ac- 
quaintances who shared his society and conversation, 
or were associated with him in the pursuits of life, will 
not, it is hoped, find the volume destitute of literary 
interest, or look with insensibility upon the endea- 
vour to honour a beloved name. 

Prefixed to such a tribute, some may desire to see 
d few particulars of the life of their friend. The 
events, however, which require mention are so few that 
the memoir might be limited to a mere sentence. 1 he 
dates which chiefly mark his simple history include but 
little more than the first and last,— the coming and 
the departure. 

The father of Edward Lewis Johnson was the late 
Edward Johnson, Esq., who for a long series of years 
filled the office of Chief Clerk in the Private Bill 
department of the House of Commons, and died in 1841. 
The son was born on the 24th of December, 1802, and 
during his early education gave some signs of that taste 
for study and the acquisition of languages which afforded 
him rich and rare enjoyment in after years. Before 
he was sixteen he had made such judicious use of his 
time, as to induce his father to employ the interest he 

possessed with some branches of the Government in 
procuring for the youth a clerkship in the Report office 
of the Court of Chancery; a situation the duties of which 
he continued to discharge, under circumstances of im- 
proving income and increased responsibility, until the 
period of his decease. 

As he grew up he realized every expectation which 
could reasonably have been built upon the promises of 
his youth. The manliness of his person, which was a 
combination of grace and strength, was a fitting emblem 
and representation of that vigorous and yet delicate 
quality of intellect which ripened with every year of 
his maturity, and diffused its influence over all his habits 
and inclinations. The duties of his office being light, 
he enjoyed the great blessing, leisure (blessing, indeed, 
to those who, like him, know how to use it, but to such 
only) ; and many must have been the days and months 
snatched, even in youth, from the temptations of gaiety 
and pleasure to devote to his favourite objects and 
authors — to the study of Spanish or Italian, the fasci- 
nations of some old writer just awakened after a cen- 
tury's sleep, or the still more delightful though familiar 
spells of Spenser and Shakspeare. 

The taste for writing possibly first grew out of his 
desire to render into English some of the literary beauties 
with which he had been brought acquainted by his 
familiarity with other languages. Delighted to read the 
great masters of the lyre in their own tongue, he shrunk 
for the most part from attempting to translate their 
"starry rhymes;" but of works less known, and those 
chiefly from modern Italy and Spain, he gave flowing 

and graceful versions. Various pieces of this kind 
appeared from time to time in popular periodicals ; 
and were followed by other contributions, chiefly of a 
more light and whimsical character, from his own stores. 
Song, sonnet, and epigram, he now freely scattered 
over several literary journals; and many humorous com- 
positions, in easy verse, testify alike to the first-rate 
quality of his puns and jests, and to his tact in giving 
them a graceful setting. The New Monthly Magazine 
was the last of the literary journals to which he con- 

During the years in which he thus combined a 
sedulous performance of every official duty with a close 
application to books, and an agreeable cultivation of the 
delightful faculty that produces them, he lived a town 
life, and entered with avidity into the best and most 
harmless of its enjoyments. A lively temperament, a 
manner winning and impressive, a softness of tone and 
demeanour that harmonized, though it seemed at variance, 
with the dark animated face and the manly figure, won 
him friends, and ensured him a welcome in many esti- 
mable circles. His literary partialities and associations 
obtained for him a like ready reception among the ac- 
complished and the intellectual; and for several years 
preceding his death his intimate associates were to be 
found among artists and poets and men of letters, who 
have rendered their names distinguished, and whose 
simple friendship is a better kind of fame. With both 
classes, perhaps, a quiet dignify that characterized him, 
and his singularly modest disposition, prevented at first a 
rapid progress of intercourse ; but his exquisite social 

qualities were never long undiscovered. To the know- 
ledge of one who had seen much of life, he joined a 
polite and kindly spirit, ever prepared to turn it to a 
pleasant account in conversation; and to a capacity for 
calm and serious discourse, he united a smooth-flowing, 
genial humour of the richest vein, — a playfulness of wit, 
that was as a golden link, making the child and the 
man one. 

But above even these qualities, his gentleness of 
disposition, his sure, and prompt sympathies, his humane 
and charitable judgment, were esteemed wherever he 
was known. His ordinary " domestic talk " frequently 
sparkled with humour ; but never was speech of his, in 
any hour, tinctured with satire or unkindness. He was 
of a sensitive, but a generous and forgiving temper. 
His integrity was entire, and without flaw. 

Edward Johnson married, in 1835, Catharine, 
daughter of the late James Lloyd, Esq., of Gains- 
borough. His new condition of life was evidently one 
most congenial to his disposition and character ; and in 
this relationship his friends might perceive the growth 
even of increased gentleness and simplicity of heart. He 
was evidently happier, and most deeply enjoyed his home. 
A new source of interest was opened to him, in con- 
nexion with education, when he became a Governor of 
Christ's Hospital. A love of art, which had grown up 
with him, also acquired keener relish ; and to the choice 
books with which he surrounded himself he added such 
prints and paintings as ardour combined with prudence 
could procure^ 

In the midst of such enjoyments, and when apparently 

most assured, by devoted affection and worldly prospects, 
of their continuance — while many friendly hearts were 
partaking his hospitality and witnessing his happiness — 
the seeds of disease became alarmingly apparent ; disease 
that was but too soon to exhibit its fatal character, the 
lungs being its seat. To say that he experienced under 
the care of Dr Hodgkin every advantage that human 
skill can confer, is to say little ; for he experienced 
besides, in his physician's fervent zeal and disinterested 
kindness, benefits scarcely less precious than those of 
the profoundest ability. For some time hope held its 
place ; but change of air and change of scene, spring, 
summer, brought no relief, and the patient drooped 
visibly. He wasted but in bodily strength ; for the spirit 
continued, through every vicissitude, every alternation 
of pain and languor, unutterably placid, affectionate, and 
bright ; no murmuring word ever escaped his lips. Hon- 
ourable as was his whole existence, it might be said of 
him, in the language of the poet he reverenced, " No- 
thing in life became him like the leaving it." He heard 
the last sad tidings tranquilly ; he received with meekness 
and gratitude the last ministrations of Christianity, 
whose truths he relied upon, and whose charities he had 
ever practised : and even thus parted for awhile with 
all he loved ! 

This earthly separation took place in his fortieth 
year, on the 16th of November, 1842. By his own 
express desire, his ashes mingle with those of his father 
and mother, in the churchyard of St John, Waterloo 


Don Angel De Saavedra, now Duke of Rivas, by far the most eminent 
of modern Spanish poets, was born at Cordova in the year 1791, 
Like Korner, of the "lyre and sword," he has fought the battles of 
his country, and recorded her victories in a series of odes and minor 
poems, displaying much pathos and brilliancy of fancy. Several of 
these are particularly interesting as tributes of admiration to the 
Duke of Wellington, with whom he fought at Ciudad Real, Talavera, 
Ocana, and other scenes of British triumph. At the latter place he 
received eleven wounds, was left for dead on the field of battle, and 
rescued at midnight by a cavalry soldier ; this event he has patheti- 
cally described in his ' Ode to the Battle of Ocana.' A slight sketch 
of his life will show that he passed through more vicissitudes than 
generally fall to the share of modern poets. At the age of sixteen 
he commenced his military career in the King's Body Guards, then 
stationed at the Escurial. This regiment shortly afterwards resisted 
the attempts of Murat's emissary to seduce them over to the 
usurper ; and ultimately marched to Saragossa, joining the standard 
of the celebrated Palafox. He was soon in active service, and was 
present in numerous brilliant achievements in the Spanish campaign, 
until taken prisoner by Sebastiani at Malaga. After escaping to 
Gibraltar, and serving at the siege of Cadiz, he gained the successive 
ranks of captain and lieutenant-colonel. At the conclusion of the 
war he was created colonel, and retired to Seville, where he devoted 
his talents to literature and painting, published a volume of poetical 

essays, and witnessed the triumphant success of two of his tragedies. 
In 1820 he joined the constitutional party, and was elected deputy 
for the province of Cordova. After the dispersion of the Cortes, by 
the entry of the French in 1S23, he emigrated to Gibraltar, and 
afterwards settled in London, remaining with us about two years, 
during which time he devoted himself entirely to literature ; but, 
wishing to study painting in Italy, he visited that country, only to 
be expelled by the government on his arrival. He now embarked 
from Leghorn on board a small English vessel, which landed him at 
Malta during a tremendous storm. Here he was treated with great 
hospitality by all classes, and remained for five years, studying 
painting ; and here also he produced numerous poems, and several 
dramatic compositions. In 1830 he retired with his family to France, 
but a short time before the revolution of July he was doomed to be 
driven from Paris by the government of Charles the Tenth, and took 
refuge in Orleans, where he supported himself and family for some 
time by establishing a school for drawing. He had afterwards, 
however, the satisfaction of visiting Paris, and of beholding several 
of his portraits exhibited at the Louvre. Finally, after a variety of 
vicissitudes, he was enabled to return to his native country in 1834; 
where, on the death of his elder brother, he succeeded to the Duke- 
dom of Rivas, and is now a grandee of the first class. His poems 
and plays have been recently reviewed in the ' British and Foreign 
Quarterly Review;' but the poem now translated is to be found in 
the 'Floresta de Rimas Modernas Castellanas,' since published at 



The world in dreary darkness sleeps profound, 

The storm-clouds hurry on, by hoarse winds driven, 

And night's dull shades and spectral mists confound 
Earth, sea, and heaven ! 

King of surrounding chaos ! thy dim form 
Rises, with fiery crown upon thy brow, 

To scatter light and peace amid the storm, 
And life bestow. 

In vain the sea with thundering waves may peal, 
And burst beneath thy feet, in giant sport, 

Till the white foam in snowy clouds conceal 
The sheltering port. 

The flaming tongue proclaims — " Behold the shore ! " 
And, voiceless, hails the weary pilot back, 

Whose watchful eyes, like worshippers, explore 
Thy shining track. 

Now silent night a gorgeous mantle wears, — 

By sportive winds the clouds are scatter'd far, 

And lo ! with starry train the moon appears, 
In circling car. 

While the pale mist that thy tall brow enshrouds, 
In vain would veil thy diadem from sight, 

Whose form colossal seems to touch the clouds 
With starlike light. 

Ocean's perfidious waves may calmly sleep, 

Yet hide sharp rocks, — the cliff false signs display ,- 

And luring lights, far flashing o'er the deep, 
The ship betray. 

But thou, AAhose splendour dims each lesser beam, — 
Whose firm unmoved position might declare 

Thy throne a monarch's, — like the north-star's gleam, 
Reveal' st each snare. 

So reason's steady touch, with light as pure, 

Dispels the gloom when stormy passions rise; 

Or fortune's cheating phantoms would obscure 
The soul's dim eyes. 

Since I am cast by adverse fortunes here, 

Where thou presidest o'er this scanty soil, 

And bounteous heaven a shelter grants to cheer 
My spirits' toil ; 

Frequent I turn to thee, with homage mute, 

Ere yet each troubled thought is calm'd in sleep, 

And still thy gem-like brow my eyes salute 
Above the deep. 

How many now may gaze on this sea-shore, 
Alas ! like me, as exiles doom'd to roam ! 

Some who perchance would greet a wife once more, 
Or children's home ; 

Wanderers, by poverty, or despots, driven 

To seek a refuge, as I do, afar, 
Here find, at last, the sign of welcome given — 

A hospitable star. 

And still to guide the bark it calmly shines — 

The bark that from my native land now bears 

Tidings of bitter griefs, and mournful lines, 
Written in tears. 

When first thy vision flashed upon my eyes, 

And all its dazzling glory I beheld, 
Oh how my heart, long used to miseries, 

With rapture swell'd ! 

Inhospitable Latium's shores were lost, 

And, as amid the threatening waves we steer'd, 

When near to dangerous shoals by tempests tost, 
Thy light appear' d. 

No saints the fickle mariners then praised, 

But vows and prayers forgotten with the night; 

While from the silent gloom the cry was raised 

" Malta in sight ! " 

And thou wert like a sainted image crown' d, 

Whose forehead bears a shower of golden rays ; 

Which pilgrims, seeking health and peace, surround 
With holy praise. 

Never may I forget thee ! one alone 

Of cherish' d objects shall with thee aspire, 

King of the night! to match thy lofty throne, 
And friendly fire. 

That vision still with sparkling light appears 
In the sun's dazzling beams at matin hour ; 

And is the golden angel memory rears 
On Cordova's proud tower ! 



Fill high the cup ! and let it flow 

With richest wine that Spain can yield — ■ 
For, gazing on this wintry snow, 

My freezing blood seems half congeaVd. 
How slowly through the tranquil air, 

The feathery flakes in myriads fall ! 
The buried landscape, once so fair, 

Lies hid beneath an ermine pall. 

Let us from this warm cot survey, 

With thankful hearts, the scene around ; 
Watching the snow-wreaths fall away 

In circles lightly to the ground. 
Now bends each shrub and forest tree, 

Beneath the sudden weight oppress'd — 
As if by magic, suddenly 

Clad in a white and glittering vest ! 

A veil of nature's own pure grace, 

Sparkling as crystal, swiftly hides 
Each dreary valley's altered face, 

Dark rock, and sullen mountain sides ; 
The streamlet speeds a faster course, 

And soon by mightier torrents borne, 
Proud in the added water's force, 

O'erleaps its fettered bounds in scorn. 

The rustic views with pensive eye 

His furrow's early labours gone; 
While scarcely able to descry 

His neighbour's pastures from his own : 
Each silent bird, with folded wing, 

Has shrunk within its nest for fear, 
Or seeks the shelter'd covering 

Of treacberous man's asylums near. 

Now hath the careful shepherd told 

His bleating flock, and close together 
They timorous stand within the fold, 

All safely guarded from the weather ;— 
Swift rides the storm in angry heaven ! 

Faster the snow descends ! as fast 
Before the gathering whirlwinds driven, 

To scatter in the northern blast ! 


Let it ride on ! The wine cup's glow — 
With thou, my own Dorilla, near, 

And joys that only true hearts know, 

We brave the storm, and laugh at fear. 

A bumper fill ! and let the song 

Dispel this wintry gloom of ours 

" A health to Spring ! " may Zephyr's throng 
Soon bring her, with a world of flowers ! 



Vincente Kodrtqttez. 

Still in the arms of hush'd repose, 
Calm nature sleeping lies, 

Till dawn her beauties shall disclose, 
And blushing, bid her rise. 

The murm'ring sound of many a wave 
Falls mournful on the ear, 

Flowing from hidden rocks to lave 
The emerald vallies near; 

While round the fold, obscure and dark, 
The gaunt wolf prowls in vain, — 

The watch-dog's sharp and sudden bark 
Hath scared him back again ! 

Night's minstrel, the sad nightingale, 

In flattery to his queen, 
Wafts faery music thro' the vale, 

From green boughs dimly seen j 


And night-winds, with their chilly breath, 
The shivering branches stir, 

Else were all things still as death 
In some lone sepulchre ! 

But lo ! the merry mountain-tops 
Now suddenly give warning, 

That tardy night her sceptre drops 
Before the light of morning ; 

With pale and doubtful gleam it peeps — - 

Bursting brighter still, — 
Now it round the summit creeps 

Of yonder towering hill. 

Swift the shadows flit away, 

As fleeting spectres glide, 
Ere by the struggling morning's ray 

Their forms may be descried. 

Now glows the east with colours bright, 

Its dusky hues withdrawn, 
And fades each streak of ghastly white 

Before the purple dawn ! 

But, fading with this beauteous change, 

A bright star disappears, 
The fairest gem in all the range 

Of heaven's celestial spheres. 


Aurora, now, by ocean's shore, 

Is suddenly reveal'd, 
And silvery show'rs of dew restore 

The meadow and the field. 

While each wild flower of nature's wreath, 

Its fragrant chalice lends 
To Zephyr, who, with gentle breath, 

Each varied odour blends. 

From each warm nest a songster sweet 

Pours forth its little lay, — 
A hymn of innocence to greet 

The harbinger of day ! 

The early yeoman sallies forth 

To urge his team along, 
O'er fields that are his own by birth j 

And chaunts his native song. 

A lonely fisher's humble bark 

Its tiny sail hath set, 
To steer where dotted circles mark 

The silvery spangled net. 

And soon the young enamoured maid 

Will near her lattice find 
A garland of fresh lilies laid. 

With pinks and roses twined, 


Ripe fruits lie blushing with the flow'rs, 

All gather' d by a youth, 
As homage in the darkling hours 

To show a lover's truth. 

The pilot leaves the shelter'd port, 

And soon his ample sail 
Is set in gallant trim to sport 

Before the fresh'ning gale. 

Along yon smooth and dewy green, 
With starlike flowers spread, 

A flock of small white ewes are seen, 
To pasture slowly led j 

And following close, in sportive play, 
Their frolic lambs appear, — 

The shepherd smiles upon his way 
As each one gambols near ! 

With fertile stores the fresh earth teems, 
New blood fills every vein, 

As nature, roused from sluggish dreams, 
Now starts to life again. 

Thus magic in the daybreak lies, 

Why give such hours to sleep ? 

Thrice happy those who calmly rise 
Such golden fruits to reap ! 



Upon a proud and glossy steed, all dappled black and Avhite, 
Whose speed was like a rapid thought, and beautiful as light, 
Rode Andalusia's wonder, its brightest Moorish star, 
The valiant Aben Zulema, the lightning of the war ! 
Absorb'd in dark foreboding thoughts, in sad and mournful vein, 
From Coen to Granada he rode with drooping rein. 

A mantle hung all loosely round his shoulders' plated mail, 
Which, with a light and graceful flow, oft flutter'd in the gale ; 
Above his weighty haubert shone a surcoat rich with gold, 
And gleamed a casque of steel in his turban's snowy fold — 
A Damascus crooked cymetar from his jewelled girdle hung, 
And his double-pointed lance in its rest was lightly swung. 

As on he rode, his mighty arm still clasp'd his trusty shield, 
On whose bright ground, the azure sky, a brilliant star reveal'd ; 
And its margin's shining circles this Arabic motto bore — 
" When this shall fail to light me, hope's obscured for evermore." 
Why spurs he faster onward now, as distant towers appear, 
Whose walls the gentle Genii laves, with waters pure and clear? 


There dwells the fair Zorayda, and there he speeds to aid 
That paragon of earthly charms — his own betrothed maid ! 
Her sire's command would yield her hand, by force or crafty stealth, 
To a Moor of base, ignoble blood, yet lord of boundless wealth ; 
But soon brave Aben Zulema this cruel wrong hath known, 
And forward to the rescue on the wings of love hath flown ! 

His wrathful mood full oft is proved upon his fiery steed, 
For his thoughts may not be equall'd bythat bounding courser's speed; 
Until the rosy light of dawn each flowery meadow cheers, 
And now, the wished-for mansion but a distant league appears ; 
Then soon he stays with sudden check his courser's swift career, 
For, with the gale, a feeble wail falls mournful on his ear. 

He listens — 'tis her sad lament, the voice of his belov'd, — 

Oh ! then was true nobility and manly valour prov'd ! 

Firm to his breast his shield he press'd, and fixed his trusty lance, 

As forward to those doleful sounds he gallop'd in advance, 

Where a band of marching Christians two captive Moors surround, 

And their prize was Aliator, with his weeping daughter bound ! 

Swiftly as flies from angry skies the lightning's vivid ray, 
When, earthward driven by stormy heav'n, it wings its rapid way — 
So rush'd the valiant Moor amidst the battle's deadly close, 
Nor heeded he what power might be the number of his foes ; 
Wheeling around, he many a wound and certain slaughter deals, 
And when his lance is splinter'd, to his cymetar appeals. 


The knight behaves like Christian brave, — but as a beast of prey, 
Revenging her lost offspring, the Moor keeps all at bay; 
Where'er his flashing weapon lights, its force no arms withstand, 
For not more fatal is the din of Destiny's dread hand ! 
Till now the sound of ringing arms the fertile valley fills, 
While echo bears the clamour to the distant snowy hills ! 

As yet, no drooping fortitude the valorous Moor hath shown, 
Tho' mortal strength will fail at length, and time can wear the stone : 
A crimson flood of mingled blood the emerald plain bedew'd, 
When the gallant Christian chief advanced, to stay th' unequal feud; 
For, aloof with silent wonder, he had stood till now to gaze, 
And scorned, against that single youth, unconquer'd arms to raise. 

The soldiers heard his signal word, which, like a magic spell, 
The hawk could stay upon its prey, and the battle's wrath could quell ; 
It was the Knight of Murcia, — all honoured be his name ! 
For his deeds were worthy statues, to be garlanded by fame. 
Alighting from his charger, to his heart the Moor he press'd, 
And while his arms encircled him, he thus the foe address'd : — 

" Right valiant has thy prowess shone, thou brave and gallant youth, 
" And well do such fair tokens prove nobility and truth ; 
" If hearts like thine can firm combine to man Granada's towers, 
" Oh ! never there shall float in air the red-cross flag of ours. 
" I render thee thy liberty, — be thine these captives twain, — 
" An aged Moor and maiden, whom we captur'd on the plain. 


" And when sterner foes oppress thee, or toils be round thee laid, 
" Remember well Taxardo, and 'Murcia' to thine aid!" 
The noble Moor was touch'd with joy, till tears in silv'ry show'r 
Gush'd forth, to prove how gallantry surpasses martial pow'r ; 
He sought to hide his tears, and cried — " To noble blood I yield, 
" Farewell ! farewell, Granada ! thy doom at length is seal'd ! 

" In vain we guard our battlements with shields and lances true, 
" And vain our pow'r on rock or tower, if hearts you thus subdue ! 
" To me thou grantest more than life, for life were undesir'd, 
" Hadst thou betray'd this Moorish maid, that all my soul inspir'd." 
Then crouching at Taxardo's feet, the earth his lips had press'd, 
But the parting knight, with fond delight, again the youth caress'd. 

And now the three, from bondage free, approach'd the mansion gate, 
Where festivals, in beauteous halls, with joy they celebrate ; 
Her lover's wounds Zorayda heal'd, — perchance not by the aid 
Of magic charm or healing balm, but yet the cure was made ! 
And soon, his wonted strength restor'd, he calls Zorayda bride. 
"Was ever debt of gratitude so fairly satisfied ! 



Behold this terraced garden scene, 

That with the Hesperides might vie ! 

The golden haunt of beauty's queen, 

When morning's blush is on the sky, 
And Flora weaves her tapestry. 

Around this sculptured fountain, see 

How art with nature bravely strives ! 

Struggling for graceful mastery, 

Till she the palm to nature gives, 
Who all the marble's grace survives. 

A hundred nymphs are sporting here, 

Whose laughing mouths form sparkling rills ; 

Beneath, a hundred Fauns appear, 

Catching the lymph the fount distils, 
And each his shining goblet fills. 

Each channel leaps with frolic power, 
As every pipe distinctly plays; 

While the transparent diamond shower 
That round the crystal fountain strays, 
Scai'ce veils the lurid watery maze. 

Behold ! the song-bird's chosen haunt, 

Where sunshine rests, and flow'rets sprin 

Where nightingales their tenderest chaunt 
In melting accents softly sing, 
To the sweet waters murmuring. 

Then, maiden, let this beauteous spot, 
All-favour'd, sparkle in thy sight; 

Else were all other charms forgot : 
I call on thee, my soul's delight ! 
To add to this clear fountain's light. 

For still, methinks, the gifted stream, 
Above the riches it can show, 

Hath yet to boast a charm supreme ; 
Then let the crystal water know 
What joys thy coral lips bestow ! 




The roses that now withering lie, 
Scatter'd by thee scornfully, 
Peeping dawn beheld me cull, 
Fragrant, fresh, and beautiful ; 
Living, they so bravely flourish' d, 
As for lasting ages nourish'd, 
But like shadows fleeting past, 
All fair things do fade at last ! 
August with its sultry breath 
Stifles sweetest flowers to death; 
When to other regions Spring 
Hurries, they lie perishing ! 
Autumn shows its ruddy face, 
Glowing with a perfect grace, 
As aged Summer fast declines, 
Dying 'midst the drooping vines ! 
Then roaring winds from out the north, 
O'er the mountains hurrying forth, 


Hurl ruin on the sterile soil, 
And the landscape's charms despoil ; 
So doth dark and cheerless night 
Follow fast day's golden light, — 
Joyous smiles give way to tears, 
And pleasure flies as grief appears. 
Inconstancy reigns over all 
This fickle globe, perpetual ; 
All within its circle's range 
Must yield to an eternal change ; 
Thus, on constancy she tramples ! 
In the midst of such examples 
Can unchanging truth be shown, 
Maiden, in thy heart alone ? 



Albert Lista. 

Mark ! where aloft in shadowy distance seen, 

Slow winding down yon flowery mountain's side, 

Like to a silver thread on emerald green, 

A tiny mnrnr ring stream doth gently glide ; 

So soft its course o'er the wide grassy scene 

That scarce its small thin wave may be descried, 

It9 feeble moan scarce heard upon the wind, — 

Thus the first thread of human life is twin'd ! 

And now secure, it gains the blooming plain, 
Where first its waters ramble on at will, 

Awhile conceal'd, — then laughing out again, 
Soon to become a placid shining rill ; 

Now past the rapid steps, its waves regain 

The valley that its pleasant chime shall fill : 

Now slowly circling yon tall waving wood, 

Or sporting with the flow'rs beside its flood. 

Onward it boldly dashes, — yonder falls 

Have plunged it down to dark and gloomy deeps, 
Whose yawning chasms the shudd'ring sight appals ; — 

Now, with the light, it o'er the meadow leaps ! 


No danger past the joyous stream recals, 

As o'er enchanting fields it ling'ring creeps, 
Upon a lap of bright hues blent with gold ; — 
And thus our infant course is briefly told ! 

Soon to a hardy mountain-torrent grown, 

Now stormy rains have overflow'd its store, 

Till, foaming at restraint — fast, wild, and lone, 

Through rocky vales the hurrying waters roar; 

The marble arch across its current thrown 

Scarce curbs its headlong force from either shore ; 

In vain the sturdy oaks may flourish near, 

And scarce the hill-side checks its wild career. 

Now near the sloping cataract faster whirl'd, 
To perils veil'd the waters swiftly flow, — 

Till o'er the dark and rocky barriers hurl'd, 

They gain, with thund'ring roar, th' abyss below ! 

With silvery foam each giant wave is curl'd 

Round prison depths, within a tower of snow ; 

And where the scatter'd spray aloft is driven, 

The sun reveals the colour'd arch of heaven ! 

These toils surmounting, soon the boundless space 
Again o'er mossy crags it speeds its way, 

Despoiling all the landscape's flowery grace, 
So lately shower'd around by gentle May ; 


The shepherd soon nor hut nor fold may trace, 

And trees uptorn the raging waves display, 
That never moderate flow, nor yield to force, — 
An emblem true of Youth's wild stormy course ! 

Augmented thus, lo ! now the mighty stream 

Holds sov'reign reign along the plain's expanse, 

Through stately banks how cool the waters gleam, 
And yet with calm majestic flow advance ! 

Despite the thirsty summer's parching beam, 
That threatens all around with fiery glance, 

Onward it flows — a bright career of peace, 

Showing exhaustless stores that still increase. 

Behold, with what a regal, proud disdain, 

It greets each vassal tributary force ! 
Here rolls the torrent, swol'n with mountain rain, — 

Here winds the woodland brook from shady source, 
While the pure stream that glides along the plain, 

Hither, from smiling vallies, bends its course ; 
Until beneath one name, with deep lament, 
A fatal mass the mingling waves are blent. 

Ungrateful to the friendly wood, whose shade 
Reflected graceful garlands on its tide, — 

False to the walls where homage once was paid, 

When its poor waves crept humbly by their side, — 


Now, o'er the meads, in 'whelming force array 'd, 

The forest's lowering strength is swift defied ; — 
Free from restraint, while rushing uncontroll'd, 
The gloomy type of mortal sins behold ! 

Again, in devious windings from its source, 
Feebly it falls ; unnumber'd currents glide 

Far from its margin, and its wonted force 

The various parting streamlets fast divide ; 

The power that threaten' d proud walls in its course, 
When cities flourish'd by its lordly tide, 

Now a dull mass of slothful water lies, 

That every wind still ruffles and defies. 

Opprest, the angry waters now appear, 

Beneath the ponderous mole of arch's weight, 

Yet onward still the sever'd channels steer, 

Murai' ring thro' massy piles in scatter'd state : 

And soon a thousand vessels doom'd to bear, 

Which Crime and Wealth continue still to freight,- 

Until the stream comes near the bitter sea, 

And mirrors well Old Age's misery ! 

Now with the mighty gulf that swallows all 
The dim cerulean stream already blends, 

And hearken ! now a dread continued call — 
The hoarse funereal summons ocean sends ; 


Now mournfully the hurrying waters fall 

Into yon vast expanse, — our journey ends,- 
The eternal sea receives each parting wave, 
And human life thus ends within the grave ! 


Tormes arise ! lift up thy godlike brow, 

With purple Iris and green vervains crown' d, 
In glad assembly now 

Gather thy nymphs around, — 
From eveiy shore invoke the happy swains, 
For thou at length art free from servile chains ! 

Attune our sweetest lays 

To sing the conqueror's praise — 
Paeans of joy ! to him who bravely led 

His gallant forces to our country's aid ; 

Who scarce his power display'd 
Ere the usurper fled, 

With all his impious hosts at once dismay'd ; 
Scatt'ring their driven troops as sure and fast 
As baleful clouds before the northern blast ! 

Tormes behold ! triumphant on thy shores 

The British Chief — Bellona's fiery son ! 
With glorious arms, Castile he now restores, 

Who from Bengal victorious wreaths hath won, 
And by the sultry Ganges all subdued, 
While trembling Gaul each valorous deed hath view'd ! 

Victory his path precedes, 

Where'er he leads ; 
And now her spear is given 
To aid the vengeance of insulted Heaven, 

And Mars hath flung his shield 
Around the hero where his bolts are hurl'd ! 

His hand shall bring to Spain 

Freedom again, — 

O'er the Lutecian field 

His standard be unfurl' d — 
And stemming Gallia's tide of frantic rage, 
Shall dim the lustre of the Grecian age ! 

The earth's proud tyrant from afar, 
Saw the bold chief each fort restore, 
And fired with rage would dare to pour 
Against Heaven's host his impious war j 
Now gathering all his troops in haste, 

The captains of each band address' d, — 
" On to Aqueda — lay Duéro waste — 

Let Guardiana be again oppress'd j 


Again our arms triumphant shall appear 
O'er trembling Spain. Ye Islanders beware! 
Go plough the foaming billows with your fleet — ■ 
With swelling sails from these our seas retreat, 
Or all our power and fatal vengeance dare ! " 

He spoke, and as noon's car of flaming light, 
By fiery coursers borne, dispels the snow 

From sunlit peaks on stern Moncano's height, 

To whelm with thund'ring waves the vale below ; 
Still bearing all before, 
The foaming waters roar, 

The rocks and giant trees bestrew the plains, 

And hill and valley's grove one mingled wreck remains ! 
So with those fiery words of pride, 
Burst fearful forth the warlike tide, 
So rush'd his hosts with furious force 
To ruin in their leader's course. 

Now through Castile the torrent pours, 

And, Tormes ! thy soft flowery shores 

Must bear the tramp of hostile swarms — 

The gleam of fierce barbarian arms, 

That threaten to destroy again 

The Athens of our modern Spain, 

Whose battlements the leader view'd, 

And thus address'd his multitude, — 


" Minerva's aid in vain would save 

These frowning walls, that feebly brave 

Our conqueror's arms, and dare withstand 

The fury of our stern command ! " 

Soon was that pride consumed by Heavenly wrath, 

As the parched harvest field 
To summer's flames would yield : 

The British Chief went forth to conquest's path. 





A set of poetical wags, including the most renowned Italian authors of the 
15th century, determined to frolic with the melancholy sonnet hy giving 
it the humorous appendage of a tail. While barbarously altering their 
country's little favourite in this fashion, they allowed it to retain its 
old pensive form, and to rim gravely on to the extent of fourteen lines. 
Then began the application of the coda, which was often of preposterous 
length, and twisted without any regard to form or fashion. These pro- 
ductions soon became tbe rage r and were applied to various purposes, but 
chiefly to flatter or petition the reigning prince, and sometimes to abuse 
him. It not unfrequently happened that the tail, like that of a hornet or 
an epigram, contained rather too sharp a sting. The princely and ducal 
patrons who received alternately this kind of praise or censure, were as 
well aware of the value of flattery as the danger of satire, especially when 
administered by poets of such power and repute as the brilliant Berni, 
the scourge Aretino, or the elevated Nicolo Franco (who was hanged at 
Rome), together with many others of equal eminence. But the poetic 
tribe would often have been safer on the tip-top of Parnassus, than 
basking in the dangerous sunshine of the little Italian courts. Other gifts 
than gold chains and purses of ducats occasionally reached the unhappy 
dependent. The gigantic lords of one thousand acres of territory (or 
thereabouts) would often rise up and crush the brilliant insect that had 
first amused, and afterwards annoyed them. For instance, Duke Alex- 


ander di Medici, after sending innumerable presents to Berni, finally 
presented him with a splendid dish, containing some savoury viand, but 
seasoned with a dose of poison. This was a farewell gift, and the duke, 
we are told, had some reason for thus varying his favours, inasmuch as 
he had particularly ordered the poet (who was in holy orders, and a Canon 
of the Church) to poison his superior, the Cardinal Hippolito di Medici. 
The command was either neglected or disobeyed, consequently the Canon 
went off instead of the Cardinal. In modern times the writing a sonnet 
is always considered one of the most innocent and harmless of recreations, 
and although this production be rejected as often as presented for pub- 
lication, let the gentle sonneteer console himself with the reflection that 
he is not liable to be hanged or poisoned for indulging in this kind of 
amusement. The following specimen is of the begging kind ; the sonnet 
itself referring to general changes — the " tail " to the particular ups and 
downs of the poet's finances — and its extreme point goes direct to a 
petition for money. 


Addressed to his Princely Patron, bt Eomolo Bertini. 

Oft have we seen each sterile field and plain 

Appear all green and gold, when Zephyr breathes again ; 

The headlong torrent we can trace no more, 

Whose silvery spray tower'd high above the shore ; 

Ocean, that slept so tranquil — now disturb' d, 

Its waves, like foaming coursers, leap uncurb'd ; 

And the calm splendour of the star-lit heaven 

Is veiled by storm-clouds o'er the fair face driven. 

Night follows day, and short the confines seem, 

That sever pain from pleasure ; like a dream, 

Sharp thorns spring up, fast as the roses drop ; 

That busy wheel, which never seems to stop, 

Turns all things round, and by its course we know — 

Swift as the lightning's flash, joy turns to woe ! 

I know not if your highness may be slow 
To penetrate this sonnet's toughish rind, 
But if you pierce its core, perchance you'll find. 

More frankly I must speak, 
Tho' I have graced a banquet board this week, 
To-day, I somehow feel an appetite ; 

And tho' the other night, 
I slept without once waking, yet it seems, 
Sleep still returns, with yawns, and nods, and dreams ; 

Still further to explain — 
For allegory may be often used in vain, 
I'll spur my hackney on another course ; — 

My lord ! my purse, 
Which you so often generously have filPd, 
Melts all the cash, as if it were distill'd, 

Nor could hermetic seal 
Shut it so close, but I am doom'd to feel 
That it would ooze without restraint away ; 

Now I would wish to stay, 
Still in my hands, the gold that lately shone, 
Without the aid of philosophic stone. 

The more so when I say 
That on the festival of All- Saints' day, 
I call my neighbours in, the feast to aid ; 

My tailor must be paid, — 
Then come the house expenses, and the rent, 
And guess your author's sad bewilderment. 

Pray think of these affairs, 
I pray your highness ! pray relieve my cares, 
Pity and succour, and you have my prayers ! 



Blow light, thou balmy air, 

My Lady's couch above ; 
Blow lightly there, ye winds, and spare 

The slumbers of my love ! 
Let no rude blast be found 

To mar her gentle sleep, 
But all around a dreamy sound, 

And drowsy murmur creep. 

! fly, thou balmy air, 

And by her couch remain ; 
Go blend thee with her breath, and bear 

Its balm to me again ; 
But lightly go, and gently blow — 

Blow softly as my strain ! 

Blow gently, do not break 

The stillness of her sleep ; 

1 would not make my love awake, 

Nor raise those lids to weep. 

Ye winds ! that, borne in happier hour, 

May wanton as ye will ; 
If round her bow'r you have the pow'r 

To creep and murmur still, 
O lightly go, and gently blow, 

And let her slumber still ! 

Fkom Metastasio. 

How in the depth of Winter rude 

A lonely flower is prized, 
Which in the month of April view'd, 

Perhaps has been despised : 
How fair amid the shades of night, 

Appears the star's pale ray; 
Behold the sun's more dazzling light, 

It quickly fades away ! 

The Pilot swears that on the seas 

He'll trust himself no more, 
But when more tranquil is the breeze, 

Again he quits the shore. 
The Warrior swears no more to bear 

The weight of spear and shield, 
But let him the loud trumpet hear, 

He rushes to the field. 


From Ciiiabrera. 

As once in pensive mood I chanced to stray 

Beside a purling streamlet's silvery brink, 
Mcthought that as it onward rolled its way 
Sudden its gentle murmurs seemed to say 

" Here rest awhile — the crystal waters drink ! " 

These wondrous sounds my wand'ring footsteps stay'd, 

To gaze upon the waters — for they shone 
(As the gay sunbeams o'er their bright waves play'd) 
Like orient pearls on fairest neck display'd ; 

Thus I stood fixed like one of sculptur'd stone. 

And then the voice in such soft accents cried, 

As we are wont to hear in midnight dream : — 
" Why mournful thus regard my hurrying tide, 
" When thy own fleeting moments swifter glide 

"Than e'en the course of this meand'ring stream ? 


Such thoughts in me the magic words inspire, 

That, by their grave monition wiser grown, 
Now I despise what the base world admire, 
And set henceforth above my sole desire 

To gain in realms above an everlasting crown ! 



Lovely the hour, when bright and calm, 
On waves of peace, and winds of balm, 
Like Empress in her diamond car, 
Comes on the east the Eve's bright star. 
Lovely to watch the green wave pour 
Its sprays of silver on the shore ; 
Lovely to hear the sounds that sweep 
Thro' twilight on the crimson deep ; 
Lovely the shepherd's evening call, — 
Yet I can bid thee leave them all. 

I love — sweet girl, believe, forgive — 
I love, by thee must die or live. 
I've gazed for nights upon the sky, 
It gave no starlight like thine eye ; 
That orb so bright, so purely blue, 
As if the soul were looking through ! 
Are eyes like thine to waste their beams 
On silent rocks and lovely streams, 
"While there are human hearts to move, 
While one — but lives, but dies for love ? 


My rosebud — but too like the flowers 
That purple o'er the mermaid's bowers, 
Hiding their beauty from the sun, — 
My cloister'd love, my more than Nun ! 
Thou wert not made to blush and bloom 
Where mortal feet might never come. 
Thou hast a heart — no hermit's heart, 
That longs from life and joy to start, 
And where no gentle step is near, 
Falter the sigh, and shed the tear, 
Cold, fruitless as the mountain shrine — 
There's ruby in those lips of thine ! 
Thy very tears of passion tell, 
Passion and joy, that play like gleams 
Of diamond — feeling's nobler gems, 
Oh come ! my own, my Isabel ! 


Della Casa. 

Where tliese rich palaces and stately piles 

Now rear their marble fronts in sculptur'd pride, 

Stood once a few rude scatter' d huts beside 

The desert shores of some poor clust'ring Isles. 

Yet here a hardy band, from vices free, 

In fragile barks rode fearless o'er the sea ; 

Not seeking over provinces to stride, 

But here to dwell afar from slavery. 

They knew not fierce Ambition's lust of power, 

And while their hearts were free from love of gold, 

Rather than Falsehood, Death they would behold. 

If heaven hath granted thee a mightier dower, 

I honour not the fruits that spring from thee, 

With thy new riches — Death and Tyranny ! 


Luca Marentio. 

My Ladye once at rosy break of day, 

Thro' greenwood paths to gather flowers had stray'd, 
As Love by chance came wandering near that way, 

Intent on weaving garlands, like the maid. 

Then changed he to a floweret in a glance, 

A small white flower, exceeding beautiful ; 

And happy thus he lived — in hope, perchance, 
That snowy hand the little flower might cull ! 




Vasco, whose bold and happy bowsprit bore 
Against the rising Morn ; and homeward fraught, 
Whose sails came westward with the day, and brought 
The wealth of India to thy native shore : 
Ne'er did the Greek such length of seas explore, 
The Greek who sorrow to the Cycloj) wrought ; 
And he who Victor with the Harpies fought, 
Never such pomp of naval honours wore. 
Great as thou art and peerless in renown, 
Yet thou to Camoëns ow'st thy noblest fame; 
Farther than thou did'st sail, his deathless song 
Shall bear the dazzling splendour of thy name ; 
And under many a sky thy actions crown, 
While Time and Fame together glide along I 




Fair Italy ! thy classic lore lias spread 

Full many a time o'er me thy soothing power ; 

When dire misfortunes hung around my head, 

Thou hast beguiled full many a weary hour. 

Whether, by Dante's visions borne along, 

My soaring thoughts to Paradise aspire, — ■ 

Or charmed by Petrarch's melancholy song, 

Tuning to Love his sweetly-plaintive lyre : 

Oft have thy magic pages proved to me 

A fertile source of never-failing charms ; 

Wafting me back to days of chivalry, 

When Charlemagne aroused the world to arms ! 

Peace to thy beauteous land ! — may soon again 

Thy sleeping Genius wake, and still triumphant reign ! 



What twinkling Phantom thro' the gloom of night 
Sudden appears to cheer the lonesome way, — 
Shedding o'er these dark moors such friendly ray ; 
Now dancing near, — now flitting from the sight ! 
Art thou some wandering star of yonder sky, 
From thy bright realms above allowed to stray ; 
Now sent to guide the lonely Pilgrim's eye, 
And show what lurking dangers round him lie ? 
Or rather, like false Hope's delusive light, 
Wilt thou not near his footsteps ever play, 
Life's dreary pathway seeming to illume — 
Yet leading on to ruin and dismay ? 
Let Reason's steadier torch dispel the gloom, — 
False meteor, hence ; thou lead'st but to the tomb ! 



What awful silence hovers o'er this pile, 
Now Night hath shut the Landscape from the view ! 
Mark how the yellow moonlight, streaming through 
Each time-worn casement, lights the mouldering aisle, 
Or rests on lordly tombs with mournful smile. 
Rank weeds spring up where mortal relics strew 
The shadowy path ; and the bright midnight dew 
Weeps over flow'r and weed — the beauteous and the vile ! 
Pomp ! with thy glittering train, pause here awhile, — 
For Time this mournful veil unfolds for you : 
Learn that each path to this sad prospect leads 
Where tombs and blazon' d crests alike decay ; 
Flow'rs may wave o'er thee, blooming amid weeds, 
But none distinguish Peer or Peasant's clay ! 



The wearied Huntsman's task was clone, 

And onward fast he rode, 
As the last faint rays of the setting sun 

On the forest pathway glow'd : 
For he marked afar with fearful eye 

The dark clouds gathering fast, 
And the oak's tall branches mournfully 

Were waving in the blast. 

Yet oft he paused, as Fancy wound 

His scatter'd comrades' horn, — 
Then swift to the echoing rocks the sound 

Of his own was loudly borne : 
But no reply the wild winds bore, 

When its echoes died away, 
Save the gathering tempest's sullen roar, 

Like the waves in a rocky bay ! 

Fearful and sudden the storm came on, — 
The clouds pour'd forth their wrath, 

While his startled courser bounded on, 
As the lightnings crossed his path I 


Loud o'er his head the thunder roll'd, 
Fierce fell the rattling shower, — 

And the fall'n trees' wither'd branches told 
Of the Storm-fiend's mighty power ! 

But now, methought, through the murky air 

A taper dimly shone ; 
Another flash ! — and its crimson glare 

On a straggling hut was thrown. 
Short was the Hunter's course before 

He gain'd its friendly roof, 
And a peasant's hand flung wide the door, 

Roused by the trampling hoof. 

Coarse was the fare, yet freely given, 

'Twas all his poor hut yielded, — 
But the Hunter's pray'r was rais'd to Heaven, 

That now the wand'rer shielded : 
Calm was his rest at evening's close, 

On his lowly rustic bed, 
He envied no monarch his soft repose, 

Though the storm howl'd o'er his head. 

Sweetly through the foliage streamed 

The morning's rosy light, 
Sweetly it through the lattice beamed 

On the drowsy Hunter's sight. 


But hark ! what sounds on the breezes float ! — 

Now Host and Guest arise ; 
For the Huntsman's shout and the bugle's note 

Are echoing to the skies ! 

While, glittering in the morning's ray, 

Flash pennon, lance, and spear, 
As onward spurring a proud array 

Thro' the tangled woods appear. 
The Peasant marvell'd what might bring 

Such countless nobles there, 
When the cry burst forth, " the King, the King ! : 

In shouts that rent the air. 

But his cheek grew pale with fear to see, 

As the crowd still forward press'd, 
Lord, Knight, and Vassal bend the knee 

Before his Unknown Guest ! 
Well might he gaze with wondering eyes, 

Upon that Stranger's form ; — 
He had shelter'd, beneath the Hunter's guise, 

His Monarch from the storm ! 


Love and a maid went out to sea, 

The moon shone fair, and calm, and bright, 
The bark flew swift and merrily 

Along the silver line of light 
Which track' d the dark green ocean sea. 

They never thought the moon could go, 
Or angry winds beset the deep, — 

The moon goes down, the night-winds blow, 
The maid, alarm'd, begins to weep, 

And Love grew cold, and ceased to row. 

The maiden screams ! the bark is lost ! 

" I like not this," Love coldly cries ; — 
Wave mounts on wave — the oars are lost ! 

He spreads his wings — away he flies, — 
The bark is wreck'd upon the coast. 

Just as the maid, to rise no more, 

Sank down, a voice was heard to sing : — 
" If maidens needs must quit the shore, 

" And Love to cheer the way must bring, 
" Let Prudence come to pull the oar." 


"Written in an Album. 

The star is set that lighted me 

Thro' fancy's wide domain, 
And the fairy paths of Poesy 

I now may seek in vain. 
'Tis but when Sorrow's clouds appeal 1 , 

In frowning darkness o'er me, 
The light of Song breaks forth to cheer 

The dreary path before me. 

As o'er the dusky waves at night, 

Oft mariners behold 
That Ocean-form, St Ermo's light, 

When tempests are foretold ; 
Two reasons in my mind arise 

Why song is now denied me — 
No Light can venture near thine eyes, 

Nor Grief, when thou'rt beside me ! 



"And as we read the names unknown 
" Of young and old to judgment gone, 
" To meditate in Christian love 
"Upon the dead and dying." — Wilson. 

Hither with me, and gaze awhile 
On the solemn crowd in yon dim aisle, 
Where a rosy child in the midst appears, 
Shrinking back with unconscious tears; 
At that holy font, in the face of Heaven, 
The cross is signed and the name is given I 

Hark ! where the village school pours forth 
A motley tide, with their boist'rous mirth ; 
Saving One, they are scatter'd and gone, 
He ponders still o'er his book alone ; 
What may so deeply his thoughts engage ? — 
His own name writ on the title-page. 

Behold where the tangled branches shade 
The vine-wreath'd lattice of yonder maid ! 
She listens to catch the whisper'd breath 
Of a manly youth conceal'd beneath ; 
One word has kindled a mighty flame, 
And that magic sound is— her Lover's name ! 


Again — 'tis the Pageant's final scene, 

Where weeping friends round the death-bed lean ; 

A scroll in the sick man's hand is placed, 

But his name can now be faintly traced ; — 

Why on that parchment thus intent ? — 

"lis that dying man's last Testament ! 

Now follow me — yet softly tread, 
For our feet are wand' ring over the dead ; 
Put back the weeds from this sunken stone — 
Its sculptured letters are nearly gone ! 
Mark this — thy course will be the same, 
And a mould'ring stone record thy name ! 



Humbly addressed to Benvenuto Cellini. 

Striker of medals, and of many men, 

In that fierce age 

When striking was the rage, 
And men could cut with chisel, sword, or pen ; 

Who can behold 

The works thy genius plann'd, 
And not be struck by thy great master-hand ? 
What golden hours were thine ! for we are told 

By thine own page, 
The Mint engaged thy time, and Pontiffs sage 

Would give thee their support 

While sinking for the court 
Its papal die. 
Hail ! to thee, " carver " bold ! 

Thus born to flourish under the " Pope's eye/' 

Yet would defy 
His toe ; 
By leaving gold unchased, to chase a foe : 


Scorning all forms, beside St Peter's chair 
For nothing did'st thou care — 

Bating his "bull !" 
It were an even toss 
Which of thy works may be most wonderful ; 
Sometimes a sonnet writing, 
Now fairly fighting, 
Then sitting coolly down to work "a cross !" 

" Fine images " were thine 

Thy cups which we inherit 
Seem full of spirit — 
And in thy magic rings dull heroes shine. 
In metal, stone, or wood, 
Equally good, 
Thy works on Fame's high pedestals have stood ; 
Many are handed down, 
Thy name to crown. 
Thus chaste Diana we may still behold, 
Bathing within a circle of pure gold, 
And Pan looks sharply out from some dark wood ; 

While Mercury in silver may be found, 
With nymphs enough to form a good seraglio — 
A cameo of Aurelian — 
Cornelia in cornelian — 
And, best of all, Huntsmen with horn and hound, 
Unlike our English tally-ho, 
Yet all— intaglio ! 


A stone of no great value has been set 

On thee for ages past ; 
No sculptor cuts thee out, nor have we met 

A Founder of thy cast, 
Since Death — that sinker of renown — 
Within the grave did cool thy metal down ! 

There every crown is toss'd, 

And the best ivories lost ; 
There, veinless as his marbles, and as cold, 
Cellini lies within his country's " mould ! " 


Descend ! bright Queen of the starry train, 
"With thy dewy mantle to earth again — 
She comes ! the enchanted wand of night 
Hath steeped the forest in emerald light ; 
Its touch hath silver'd the streamlet's wave, 
And each young flow'r, like an Eastern slave, 
As it meekly bows its head to thee, 
Proclaims the pow'r of thy Sovereignty. 

How softly thy hallow'd moonbeams smile 
On the marbled abbey's mournful pile, 
Dance o'er the trembling ocean tide, 
Or illumine the purple mountain side ; 
Where the churchyard yew's dark branches wave 
O'er the sculpttir'd tomb and the lowly grave, 
On ruin'd tower, or ivied wall — 
Thou reign'st in beauty over all ! 

Come forth, ye frolic elves, who dwell 
By rocky cavern or haunted dell, 
Seek that lone nun, the lily pale, 
And kiss her beneath a gossamer veil; 


Crown every flow'r with a dewy gem, 
And fondly circle each favourite stem, — 
With tiny clasp, and with amorous kiss, 
Welcome the moonlight hours of bliss ! 

The lonely Mariner marks on high 

His guiding star in the cloudless sky ; 

The Poet's magic hour is come, 

And the Scholar yields to his ancient tome ; 

But Nature's page is lovelier far, 

While my lady's glance is my guiding star ; 

Let her smile on me at this charmed hour, 

And I envy no Poet's creative power ! 


In the Garden of Plants at Paris there is a sun-dial, bearing the inscription, " Horas non 

Come, let us count the sunny hours, while the laughing sky's serene, 
Without a threatening cloud to mar the brightness of the scene ; 
Let our sorrows have no record, but be banish'd from the mind, 
As shadows o'er a placid stream, that leave no trace behind. 

To muse upon our sinking hopes, Time's tide too quickly flows, 
Why linger, then, to count the thorns, ere gathering the rose? 
If the present gives but little joy, from the future we must borrow, 
So if pleasure should depart to-day, why hope may come to-morrow. 

Why weep for that which perishes ? when fragrant flowers fall, 
Can the kindest flow'rs of summer their departed hues recai ? 
Then, like dials in the sunshine, this philosophy be ours — 
To take no heed of darker days, but count the sunny hours ! 



II Mill I